A Heart Like Yours
by pensversusswords
Summary: Tony Stark is reckless, and a little too competitive, which is how he ends up wrecking his car and landing himself in the hospital. Steve Rogers lives in a house with a bunch of idiots who he loves, which makes it a little bit easier that they don't know how to cure him just yet. Or, the one where Tony Stark doesn't realize he has a heart, until he decides to give it away.
1. Chaos

**A/N:**

Hello!  
This is a modern AU where there's a little bit of sick Steve, a little bit of angst, and a lot of the Avengers being normal citizens who happen to be complete goobers.

Title inspired by one of my favourite songs, "Hearts like Ours" by The Naked and Famous.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

"Tony, you've been down here for days, you have to leave sometime," Pepper fretted, her lips drawn tight and that familiar exasperated and worried expression hovering in her eyes. She assessed the weary, dark haired man with a streak of grease decorating his cheek and tousled hair that hadn't seen a shower in days. "This isn't healthy, you may be a genius but you still need basic human necessities like food and sleep. And _bathing_. I'm starting to think those grease stains are actually becoming a part of your flesh."

"I'm working, and I'm not even tired Pep, honestly. I'm fine; great actually. Sleep and sustenance are for the weak," Tony responded flippantly in that distracted voice that Pepper had long ago labelled the _I'm not listening to you but thanks for trying _voice, and she suppressed a groan.

"When was the last time you ate?" she demanded.

"Not that long ago," he lied. He honestly couldn't remember.

He used his feet to propel his chair across the room to another desk where he immediately began fiddling with some wires with one hand, the other swiping at a holographic screen. "In fact, I'm not hungry either, and I'm really quite busy right now so if you don't mind-"

"Actually I do mind, Tony," Pepper snapped. "You look completely exhausted."

"Completely a lie, actually," he protested with a smirk, "I'm just as handsome as ever, grease stains and bed head is totally in this season, haven't you heard?" He preened, spun his chair around to give her an impish grin, and continued in a 180 to get back to work.

Pepper rolled her eyes. "Bed head would imply that you've actually _slept,_ which I'm entirely certain that you haven't."

"I slept!" he exclaimed indignantly and frowned up at the ceiling. "JARVIS, you up? Help me out here, buddy. When did I sleep last?"

"Always for you, Sir. The last time you slept was eleven hours ago, when you rested your head on your desk for a grand total of forty five minutes, " the dulcet tones of his AI chimed in, "which I assume does not meet your assistant's approval. Hello, Miss Potts."

"Hello, JARVIS," Pepper responded to the AI with a faint smile. "Thank you, and no, that does not meet my approval at all."

"Are you certain it was wise to involve me in this discussion, Mr. Stark?" The sarcastic drawl of his voice was unmistakable, and Tony twisted his face into a scowl.

"Thanks for your never ended support, JARVIS. Snarky bastard, " Tony grumbled.

He shoved himself away from his desk before Pepper decided to pull him away by his ear because _ow_, that hurt the last time she did it. To be fair, it was probably the only way to get him to stop working when he really got into a project, and had barricaded himself in his workshop for so long that when he finally left it was with squinty eyes like a prisoner seeing light for the first time in years. Usually it was accompanied by a headache that could only be remedied by a steaming hot cup of strong coffee.

He stood with a grimace and rubs one hand through his hair, cursing the bright lights and the fact that he had to take a break to sleep if he wanted his body to continue to function. "Dim the lights to something less obnoxious, why don't you JARVIS? And make me more coffee. Strong coffee; the kind that puts hair on your chest."

"Oh no," Pepper laughed in a way that was utterly humorless, and grabbed him by the elbow, spinning him around to face her. "No more coffee, you need to go to bed. You promised everyone that you'd be there tonight and right now you're an absolute mess, and this night means a lot to Thor and you aren't going to ruin it by showing up with four day old scruff and your crabby, caffeine deprived, overtired behaviour."

"I'm not crabby-"

"I mean it, Stark," she bit out, using that voice that's all crackly around the edges, which meant she was angry with him for not taking care of himself but she's trying to smother the fondness in her words. It made her demands slightly less harsh, but didn't in any way diminish the weight she was trying to put behind her words. Pepper managed this thing where she knew how to be completely terrifying and yet caring in a way that didn't make him feel like she was pitying him. Her eyes were soft beneath the irritation, and her stance was stiff like she was bracing herself for battle.

Well, when it came to his erratic behaviour, it pretty much was a battle for her; a battle that not many could handle, and that's not to say that not many had tried. At the ripe age of twenty five, he had already gone through more assistants than he cared to count, all of which were either incapable of controlling his eccentric work habits, or couldn't bear the awkwardness after sleeping with their rather charismatic and ruggedly handsome boss. He seemed to have been cursed so that he would never be able to keep a decent assistant around. They all left in a cartoon like rage, bulging eyes and steam coming out of their ears as they stormed off, usually in a cloud of very creative profanities. Whenever a new one started, Tony knew it was only a matter of time before they broke because he was beyond impossible to deal with, despite his money and charm.

Money could buy you a lot of things, but it couldn't buy him a personality that wasn't overbearing and needy.

It was never long before they were out the door and he was looking for a new assistant; a cycle that went like clockwork. Flirt, infuriate, quit, repeat. Tony was used to it, used to being too much for people to handle, too much for people to_ want_ to handle.

When Pepper came along, he saw the steely determination in her eyes, but was pretty sure that it wouldn't last more than a few months. That assumption had flown out the window the first time that she had the first time she came into the shop, hunched over his desk with a near manic expression and looking like someone had just rolled him around in engine grease, and she had efficiently managed to snap him out of his daze and shoo him upstairs where he actually slept for the whole night, quite peacefully even.

After waking up refreshed eight hours later, not feeling hung over or sleep deprived, Tony had realized that he absolutely could not scare this one away.

Which was why as he cowered under her scrutiny, he felt his resolve withering. "You're going to go sleep now, then you're going to shower and definitely not go ruin one of your best friend's birthday parties. Got it?"

Tony hoped Pepper knew that she was the only one he'd listen to.

He threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine, okay, I'll go, stop your grouching. I'll eat and sleep and do all those pointless tasks that I can't seem to avoid even though I could be spending time down here _working, _but okay, fine, I'll go."

He swiftly bent in to kiss his over attentive assistant on the cheek, and her face softened slightly as she gave him a wry smile.

"I just worry about you, Tony," she said softly, eyes boring into him and he immediately shifted his glance over her shoulder. Anger, he could handle. Impatience, frustration, irritation were all things that he was used to; but blatant, outspoken _concern_? It felt so foreign to him that he didn't know how to process it, even from Pepper, who he loved and trusted with his life.

It was easier to smother any real reaction to her words when he wasn't looking directly at her, which is why he firmly targeted his gaze on a light fixture while he took a split second to gather a response. He breathed in deeply, and when he exhaled, he had a witty retort clinging to the breath, because that's what Tony Stark did; buried all semblance of emotions under a thick veil of arrogance and a carefree attitude.

"Yeah well, who wouldn't, I mean look at me, I'm a billionaire and I look like someone just dragged me out of a ditch and used me as a canvas for an engine grease finger painting, I'd be worried too. Fortunately for me, I'm still devilishly handsome."

He grinned, and snapped his fingers loudly at the bot to his left. "Dummy, clean that up for me, would you? Think you can handle that? No - what are you doing, that's not garbage that's what I was working on - _what are you doing_?"

He leapt forward and snatched a rag out of Dummy's grasp before he ruined anything. At Tony's command he'd whirred and rolled to his side rag in hand and had just started to sloppily wipe at the nearest desk, dangerously close to very breakable objects, until Tony scolded him. The bot retreated slightly as he wilted in a robotic version of shame. Tony gave him an exaggerated glare, as he replaced a metal contraption where the unreliable AI had found it. "No, really, it's okay actually, 'cause it was my fault for assuming you knew what you're doing. I know cleaning isn't exactly your strongest suit, but thanks for trying buddy. You get points for effort, but if you mess up one more of my projects then I swear I'm going to reprogram you."

The bot slunk back at the weightless threat, God knows how many times he'd said that. He looked utterly pitiful and Tony rolled his eyes, about to say something placating, when Pepper piped up again.

"Tony," Pepper sighed, and he didn't have to look at her to know she was giving him a look of complete exasperation as he flitted around the workshop, muttering under his breath about reprogramming the useless bots, that he had no idea where they got that behavior from.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm going." He bit back a yawn and stretched his arms over his head, his aching muscles protesting. Okay, yeah, maybe sleep would be nice. The thought of crawling into bed was practically intoxicating at this point. "Food, shower, bed, party. Got it. You don't have to be such a mother hen Pepper, I can take care of myself."

She just looked at him sadly with her head tilted to one side, and _Christ _that look made him want to get a drink, because it was a look that distinctly said that no, he really couldn't.

As he bounded up the stairs for sustenance and rest, he realized, though he would only admit it very begrudgingly, that he really didn't know what he'd do without Pepper.

* * *

Tony had never been one to turn down a challenge, and one of his many faults was that it didn't take much to goad him into a challenge.

Which is why he was currently on the brink of drag racing with Thor's brother across the Odinson estate grounds.

"This is the last time you'll disrespect me in that manor, Stark," Loki spat, Thor's hand hard on his arm. Tony, in the most infuriating way he could manage, rolled his eyes and scoffed.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that you manage that all on your own, in many ways. Let's start with that hair shall we? It looks vaguely like a Christmas tree, I think you might want to consider getting yourself a new hair stylist."

"Tony," Pepper hissed in his ear.

"What? It does. I mean, I'm all for expressing personal style, but he looks like something you'd find in the holiday section at a department store… ow! Jeez, Pep, was that really necessary?"

Pepper was digging her fingertips into his arm in a warning, her perfectly coiffed nails making painful indents in his skin. He pulled away and rubbed at the marks dramatically while she glared.

"Pay him no mind, " Thor was telling his brother, who was bristling as much as the tips of his hair, "he means you no harm."

"His insolence cannot go unaddressed," Loki responded with a cat like grin that didn't reach his eyes. If he was genuinely bothered by the way Tony was grinning at him in an infuriatingly smug and obnoxious manner, he wasn't going to show it.

"No, Thor is right," Tony agreed, "I just like how your face gets all pinched and self righteous when you get mad."

"Just one night," Pepper looked up at the sky mournfully, as if there was someone up there who actually was capable of controlling Tony, "you couldn't just give me one night?"

"To be fair, I had every intention of behaving myself tonight, until he decided to get all prickly."

"All he did was call your robots 'toys,' a comment you could've very easily ignored."

"That's all?" Tony's eyes widened in indignation. "I'm sorry to break it to you all, but my state of the art, AI technology is a gift to the field of engineering, and even though I don't need validation from the talking tree over there, you can hardly me for defending my bots, come on. Plus, if he can't handle a bit of good natured humor on his behalf, he should probably avoid pissing off geniuses with attitude problems."

Pepper didn't even bother responding to that, but if looks could kill, hers would've burned a hole in his head by now. He was going to pay for this later, he knew it, but Loki just got under his skin and he couldn't seem to help himself.

Well, to be fair, he wasn't really trying that hard. The irritation crackling underneath his cool exterior was just far too amusing to watch. He was well practiced in pushing people until they broke. Plus, no one was allowed to insult his buggy bot but him.

"I really wish he'd stop insulting my hair," Loki griped petulantly under his breath.

"Is this really going to solve anything?" Pepper demanded tightly.

"Probably not at all, no," Tony declared cheerfully, enjoying the muscle that flinched in Loki's cheek at his careless attitude. He smirked, and then he was opening the door to his Maserati and ducking inside. The door slammed shut and he poked his head out of the open window. "You in or you out?"

"Brother, there is no need of this." Thor attempted one last feeble argument, but Loki was already shoving his brother aside; or rather, pushing past him because the guy was build like a freaking brick wall. He slid into his own car, ignoring Thor's protests.

Tony revved his car to life, and yelled out the window at his opponent. "To the end of the grounds and back."

"You're going down, Stark."

"Great. Glad you came up with intimidating, non-cliché last words before you get your ass handed to you."

Tony twisted his head out the window to look at Pepper, and risked one request since he was pretty much already in the dog house with her anyways.

"You want to give us a countdown, Pep?"

All that got was a flat glare and crossed arms.

"Uh, okay yeah, I'm going to take that as a no. Loki? We're starting now."

Then he peeled away, managed to catch the tail end of rather loud profanities from Loki before he rolled up his window and settled in for the ride.

In all honesty, Tony knew he was being petty. He knew that this wouldn't really amount to anything, wouldn't prove anything but what a competitive, stubborn jackass he was most of the time; but this was what he does. Tony Stark; emotionally stunted billionaire who doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut. He pushes people's buttons, watches them explode. Then, instead of picking up the pieces, he pushes it even further, until he's in yet another mess for the millionth time. He's so used to driving people insane with the overbearing personality he adopted at a young age to deal with the fact that his name was more important than the actual person behind it, that he figures, hey, why not go all the way? Why break the persona?

He was pretty sure it was a sickness, but it seemed like there was no cure, so he'd gotten used to it a long time ago.

Believe it or not, he really hadn't meant for tonight to end up the way it did. He hadn't planned to end up drag racing the Thor's infuriating brother across their estate after the lavish party Thor's parents had thrown in honor of his birthday. He had fully intended to arrive, make small talk with everyone, drink expensive champagne he had unlimited bottles of at home, eat rich hors d'oeuvres, and go home to his workshop and work on his latest project until he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore.

He'd been following his plan when that twit, Loki, had to go and say something about how it was no wonder he'd named one of his bots Dummy, he was about as useful as a bag of rocks. Something flickered inside of Tony at his words, something irrational and angry that gnawed at his gut and he'd wanted to tear that smug smirk off of his face. He'd lashed out with words he hadn't even thought about or even cared enough to remember, and now here he was. Racing at top speed with a guy who reminded him of a Cheshire cat most of the time.

Yeah, the night had gone a bit downhill from there.

"JARVIS, buddy? Wanna tell me what you think my chances are of winning?" he shouted, banking a corner effortlessly, whooping loudly.

"Based on the data I've gathered based on your velocity, the make and model of your vehicle compared to your opponent's, and the skills of both participating parties, I would have to say you have an 89% chance of winning, Sir."

"Excellent. Throw on some ACDC for me to kick ass to."

"Certainly, sir," the AI replied, voice wry and disapproving.

The opening strains of Shoot to Thrill rang through the car, and Tony whooped again, pressing harder onto the gas pedal.

He was leagues ahead of Loki at this point, twisting and turning through the track with little to no effort, faster than he should've been going. He was getting a little high on adrenaline, which is what he would always blame this stupid decision he was about to make in future conversations.

"Sir, I suggest slowing down as you approach this next turn; my calculations taking into account your velocity and the abilities of this vehicle -"

"Relax JARV', live a little," he shot back, and gripped the wheel tightly as he pitched himself around the curve.

* * *

When light shattered around him with blinding hot heat, Tony felt the pressure expand in his chest as the whole world exploded around him. His breath felt heavy as it whistled from his parted lips, a scream of pain at the searing sensation that was running through him.

One moment, his hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white and his fingers were aching in protest, his eyes wide and wild with panic. It was the ultimate oh shit moment of his life, as he felt his car careening off the road, his panic addled brain unable to make himself turn the car, to avoid the unavoidable impending disaster.

When the car struck the tree, his hands were ripped from the steering wheel and he was pitched forward with a small cry that was lost in the sharp symphony of metallic crunching and glass splintering.

The first spurt of pain he felt was a hot, insistent pressure in his arm, followed by a sharp eruption of pain that started from that one spot of heat, and resonated throughout his whole body.

Then there were a thousand tiny fires glowing across his flesh, tiny pinpricks of pain that dug under his skin and smouldered there with an insistent vigour.

For a moment that felt as though it was suspended in time, Tony felt himself hanging in thin air, his body angled so that he could see his car shuddering as it twisted into a metal pretzel around the thick oak tree. He saw the flecks of shattered glass that were still hurtling through the air, some of them coated with a thick redness.

Blood.

His blood.

Then everything stopped. There was deafening silence, and everything was agony, everything was burning hot pain and he felt his body tremble under the intensity of it.

With a groan and an internal scream that resounded through his whole body, everything went dark, and Tony went as willingly as he could.

* * *

"Clint, would it kill you to actually pour the juice into a glass before you drink it?" Steve asked for probably the millionth time as he walked into the kitchen just after six am, still groggy and rumpled from sleep, to see the short haired man in just a t shirt and boxers standing next to the open fridge, chugging orange juice like his life depended on it. It wasn't the first time he'd woken to a sight like this; sometimes it was Natasha drinking milk straight from the jug, or Bruce eating scrambled eggs right from the frying pan as he read the morning paper, but more often than not it was Clint drinking the damn orange juice from the carton in his boxers.

"Why waste time?" He shrugged, and slammed the fridge closed. "Morning, Steve," he smiled, or really it was more of a smirk. He knew how much Steve hated it, but he also knew Steve was too much of a softie to hold it against him.

As usual, Steve just rolled his eyes as he flicked on the kettle. "Good morning, Clint," he said around a yawn that he muffled with his hand. "Why are you up so early?"

"I've got an early morning class." He walked across the kitchen into the adjoining living room and flicked on the TV as he flopped down onto the couch, juice carton in hand. He began sifting through the channels, remote clicking as he jumped from station to station, a habit Steve silently hated. He wished he would just pick one and stick with it."Tasha said if I don't go she'll tell my professors that I was the one who kept stealing their desk chairs for two months straight, and knowing her, she will."

"I still don't really understand why you did that," Steve admitted it with a rueful grin, "they were just about ready to expel whoever it was that was doing it."

"Because their faces were fucking hilarious every time they walked in and saw their chair was missing again," he hooted. He finally settled on the Simpsons, and stretched his arms across the back of the couch. "There was this tiny glimmer of hope in their eyes every time they walked in, and then they'd see that it was gone..." He just shook his head. "Priceless."

"And if you do it again, I'm going to blow your cover," Natasha announced cheerfully as she sauntered into the room. Her shoulder length red hair was neat and perfectly styled and she was dressed in jeans in a tight fitting leather jacket, looking far too alert and put together for this early in the morning. She was followed by a bleary eyed Bruce, who was considerably less put together in a worn t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, and still had a red mark from his pillow on his face. He gave Steve a wave, yawned, and dove for the kettle.

"Morning Steve," Natasha said as she passed him, stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek before yanking the fridge open.

"Morning," he murmured in return, a brief smile flickering across his face at the easygoing, affectionate greeting. He remembered when they first moved in he was scared hugging her might result in his sudden death. He knew better now, but he did have a sneaking suspicion that she had a rather large soft spot for him.

Normally he would've engaged in a conversation with her, but he was distracted by the massive assortment of teas in the cupboard. Seriously who kept buying so many kinds of tea? Some of them didn't even sound like real flavors.

"Aw come on, Tasha, it's not a big deal," Clint protested from the couch, "it keeps them on their toes."

"Any of the Chai teas are good, Steve," Bruce advised. Steve turned to him where he was sitting in his spot by the window, watching him over the brim of his steaming mug. Steve gave him speculative smile.

"You're the tea monster?" he demanded incredulously, and Bruce just shrugged. "Your collection taking up about two thirds of the cupboard space!"

"You don't seem to be complaining since you're always drinking from my stash," he pointed out.

"Fair enough," Steve conceded. "Though, I'm not sure what half of them actually are."

"Be adventurous, try a new one."

"Where's the milk?" Natasha demanded, ignoring Clint's complaints and the whole tea issue as she rummaged through the fridge.

"We must be out." Steve finally picked out a Chai tea, cocoa flavoured because that seemed safe enough, and dropped the bag into his mug, pouring the steaming hot water over it. "Put it on the list."

Natasha peeked up from where she was leaning down to peer into the fridge with one perfect eyebrow arched. "Orange juice?"

Steve grimaced, and pointed. She followed the trail of his finger, and settled a menacing stare at a not even slightly guilty looking Clint who was peeking back at them over the back of the couch.

"Want some?" He held the carton out to her and wiggled it in her direction.

Natasha shrugged, and went over to take it from him, screwed it open and tipped it back to take a good, long swig.

"Come on guys," Steve groaned, but it was half hearted and he may or may not have been pushing down a tiny smile of amusement. He was used to this by now, and as expected, both of them thoroughly ignored him. Natasha took a spot next to Clint on the couch and settled in to watch TV with him; Steve sipped his tea and buried his nose the paper while the room was filled with the sound of their easy laughter.

It'd been six months since he'd moved in to what could be charitably called a happily dysfunctional household, full of a tribe of miscreants that Steve had somehow managed to become more than a little bit attached to. When he'd moved into the city from Brooklyn, he had looked everywhere for somewhere to live that wasn't an absolute hell hole and was still in his price range, (struggling art school graduate didn't exactly pay very well). The search proved to be a lot harder than it probably should've been. After what felt like the millionth cockroach infested apartment he'd visited, he was starting to think that maybe he should never have decided to move; he'd come across an ad for a house that was renting out one of their rooms. The ad told him that there was a bedroom free, and as long as he didn't have any bad habits like playing the trombone at four am., he was welcome to come check it out. It looked promising enough, so he called, spoke to a soft spoken man named Bruce on the phone to arrange a time, and a few days later he showed up on the doorstep.

When he knocked on the door of the two story, Victorian looking house at the edge of the city, he was not expecting what he got.

A tall, blonde haired man had flung open the door, dressed only in a pair of boxers and clutching a box of pop tarts. He was smiling so hard Steve thought his face might crack. "Ah, greetings friend, you must be the gentleman who inquired about the room! Come in."

Steve had just stood stock still in the doorway for a long moment, completely unsure if he should follow this half dressed behemoth of a man inside, but for some reason he did, giving the situation the benefit of the doubt.

When he got inside, it was no less batshit crazy. A terrifying redhead named Natasha stared at him with a stoic expression that bordered on absolutely petrifying while he looked around, and Clint had shot an arrow at his head within five minutes of him walking inside. He'd insisted he hadn't meant to hurt him, that if he had he wouldn't have missed, but it still startled Steve into wide eyed confusion and made his heart hammer in his chest. Clint had earned himself a whack on the back of the head for that from Natasha, and a Russian insult. Bruce had been the one that had seemed the most normal at first, until Clint had spurred him into a monstrous rage that ended up with him retiring to his room to calm down.

Whatever had possessed him to choose that place to live in, was the best decision he had ever made.

Once he had gotten past the fact that it was probably the most eccentric dynamic of people humanly possible, he was pleasantly surprised to find that they just seemed to _work_ together. He got used to the way that Thor seemed to never want to wear clothes, _ever, _(the number one house rule turned out to be that he had to wear at least boxers at all times, which implied that there was a time when he didn't even wear that much on a regular basis, which Steve was eternally glad that he had missed out on) and that Clint only found his amusement by pulling pranks on everyone, and that Natasha could probably kill him with her pinky if she wanted to. He learned that while Natasha was a master at making people quake in their shoes with one glance, she was actually just as goofy as the rest of them, with a sense of humor that had him laughing out loud on a daily basis. He came to see that even though Clint was undeniably a little shit, he had a good heart.

Thor was just… Thor. He was this humongous goober who was just impossible to dislike, despite his preference for not wearing clothes.

Once he got used to the craziness of the house, among many other eccentricities, he found that he fell into their family like group quickly and easily. He melded in with them in an easygoing fashion, finding himself on the couch squished between Thor and Clint on the couch during movie nights with Natasha at Clint's feet on the floor. They had Mexican food nights and someone was always away at 3 am if you couldn't sleep and just wanted to vent, or bake a cake for some reason (that happened more often than Steve would've expected). They watched cartoons on Saturday mornings together, ate dinner together at least once a week, and played laser tag once a month.

Before he knew it he was yelling at Thor to put pants on when he wandered out of his room buck ass naked, rolled his eyes without even flinching when Clint jumped out from behind a door at him, and only cringed internally a tiny bit when Natasha glared at him. He even got used to Bruce's random spurts of anger, which were sudden and rather unsettling at first, but eventually he figured out ways to not bring out the 'big guy,' as Clint had dubbed him.

He'd sort of just melted into the house easily, fell into their patterns and accepted their little quirks, and they in turn accepted his.

He adored them, basically, because they were the closest thing he had to a family since Bucky left; but _that _was a train of thought he really didn't need to embark on today.

Taking into account the fact that they were pretty much the only family that he had, he knew their habits pretty darn well, and none of them ever willingly woke up this early. So when the fourth member of the tribe strolled into the kitchen in all of his semi nude glory and plopped down on the couch with a box of cheerios, it finally clicked what they were all doing and he had to stifle an exasperated sigh.

Steve cleared his throat, turned down the corner of the paper and peered at them over the top edge of the sports section. "You guys didn't have to wake up to keep me company, you know."

Even once the elephant in the room was addressed, none of them broke their nonchalant demeanor, just like he'd expected them not to.

Natasha shrugged. "We just happened to wake up at the same time, Steve. Nothing wrong with getting up and sticking around to give you moral support."

"What she said," Clint chimed in helpfully.

Steve folded his paper and set it down next to his mug, fixing their backs with a pointed stare. "I really appreciate the thought, but really, it's just a routine procedure. It's not a big deal."

That was a lie. It was a big deal, considering he could go into his appointment today and walk out hours later knowing that he was going to die in the very near future. Still, he didn't need his roommates worrying about him like this, the last thing he wanted to do was be a burden to them.

"Steven, considering the dire seriousness of your condition, as your closest friends we feel an obligation to form a support system for you," Thor boomed from the couch, never one for subtlety.

Steve felt a muscle in his cheek jump as he clenched his teeth around the spurt of fear that ran up his spine.

_Breathe_, he told himself. _You're going to be fine_.

"What this bonehead meant was," Natasha interjected, shooting a glare at an oblivious Thor, "you're going through a hard time and we just want you to know that we're here for you. Which is why we're coming with you today."

Steve gnashed his teeth together, and forced down a _please, yes, come with me, I can't do this alone._

He could do it alone. He had to.

"You guys really don't have to do that," he said softly, but it was forced and feeble and not true at all. It would be a heck of a lot easier sitting in that waiting room, knowing his fate would be determined any moment, if he wasn't sitting there completely alone and terrified.

He buried his face in his hands, as he felt his weak heart speed up in his chest, clanging against his ribcage feebly but far too fast. He dug the palms of his hands into his eye sockets, suppressing a pained groan.

He started and looked up when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and his gaze met concerned green eyes. Natasha was standing next to him, staring down at him with a concerned expression, her hand burning in its spot on his shoulder.

"It's okay to ask for help, Steve," she said quietly, loud enough only for him to hear. The two goons in the living room were too involved in the TV to care about what they were talking about anyways, and Bruce was reading something intently and probably had forgotten they existed; but the way Natasha spoke was meant to assure him that her words were only meant for him.

Without giving his body permission, he felt himself leaning into her touch, the gentle companionship exactly what he was craving right now.

"I just don't want…" He trailed off, leaving a gaping space for the sentence to be filled in. _To be a burden. To smother you. For you to think that I'm weak_.

"I know," she murmured, and squeezed his shoulder gently. That's one of the things that he loved about Natasha; she heard all the things he was saying without him having to say them out loud. "We're coming, and you can't stop it."

"I-" Steve tried to come up with a response that didn't sound clingy and pathetic. He finally settled on a simple "thank you," his voice steeped in relief and gratitude.

Natasha just squeezed his shoulder again, and Steve wondered how he'd managed to be so lucky to find these people.


	2. Your Touch Is Electric

Steve sat with his back stiff and straight, his arms braced on his knees as he hunched forward. How long had he been listening to the doctor talk? It felt like hours, and before that he'd been poked and prodded at for just as long, undergoing test after test and answering so many questions, all while he was wishing he was anywhere else in the world. Far too long, he thought, considering how the chair was digging into him so insistently, a tell tale sign that he had been sitting there for a lot longer than he wanted to.

He was wondering in that moment if the doctor was wrong, and the problem was actually with his lungs, not his heart. He couldn't seem to get enough air into his body, he couldn't escape the dizziness that was spreading through his head, the pressure on his chest that had come as soon as the words had left the doctor's mouth.

Steve was trying so hard to pick up his scattered thoughts from where they lay in disarray around him, but to his dismay he was finding that everything was far too fuzzy. He couldn't find the edges, he couldn't put his thoughts back together when he couldn't even tell which jagged piece fit into which.

The doctor was just looking at him with such a mixture of faltering hope and pity that Steve wanted to get up and run from the room, away from that expression. He hated it, he hated the implications that came with it, he hated what it meant for him. He bit into his lip and Steve could see every tense line in his body; the way the veins in his neck stood out, the way his lips were taut with tension. Steve wondered how often he had to give bad news like this. He was young still, probably only a year or two fresh out of med school. Maybe this was one of his first times breaking the bad news to someone, telling them that their life from now on would essentially be fighting for breath in their lungs, for the blood to keep pumping in their veins. Perhaps this was the first time he had to look on while a million crushing thoughts ran through someone's mind across from him, trying to wrap their head around the concept of being fatally ill.

Words like _cardiomyopathy _and _weak heart, possible impending heart failure _were all jam packed in his mind, squirming wildly in their cage as they fought to get a reaction out of him.

He'd heard enough, and it was time for him to leave now.

"Is that all you had to tell me?" Steve asked shortly when he finally stopped talking, and to his absolute relief, the doctor nodded.

"Uh, yes." He stood and reached a hand across his desk. "We'll be in touch very soon. Don't lose hope, Steve. This is beatable."

The reassurance was flimsy and weak, too forced for even Steve to take it seriously.

Steve's smile was polite, but strained and brittle around the edges, and he wasn't sure if the doctor, young and nervous and naïve, could tell, but he certainly didn't care at this point. He wanted to be out of that office right this second, and it was taking sheer will to look this man in the face and be cordial with him even though he had just informed him that he had a potentially fatal disease.

He may have been able to stop himself from bolting, but he couldn't find it in himself to respond. If he had, his voice would have been crackly and pitiful, and the doctor would've known exactly how terrified he was right now. So instead, he gave a curt nod, a firm shake of his hand, and backed out of the room. He moved slowly and deliberately, even though every bone in his body was screaming at him to run.

As soon as he stepped out into the waiting room, and took in the expectant faces of his friends, he found that he could still hardly find his voice. Everything was a bit hazy, and he felt the pressing need to _get away from there. _

True to their word, all four of his roommates were crammed into tiny waiting room chairs, all of them looking rather uncomfortable as they lounged awkwardly on the hard plastic. He at first had tried insisting that they didn't all have to come, but he knew right from the beginning for a fact that he wouldn't be able to convince Natasha not to come with him. Then Clint had decided to come, and had been so steadfastly stubborn about it that Steve didn't have the energy to even bother arguing. Thor had insisted it was no imposition for him to come to offer his support, since he needed to visit someone in the same hospital anyways; due to some childhood friend who had apparently knocked heads with his brother in some sort of afterhours drag racing event that occurred after his birthday party a few days before. Which, unlike the rest of Steve's household, he had not been able to attend because he was too busy being deathly ill, feeling like his chest was about to explode.

Then that only left Bruce, and he wasn't about to be the only one not there for Steve. So, he had ended up with an entire entourage to an appointment he had been fully prepared to attend on his own. He wasn't complaining though, he loved them for it.

However, as eternally grateful as he was for every single one of them, he was moments away from throwing up that morning's breakfast, and he wasn't exactly desiring that they be around to witness that.

He shook his head as Natasha stood up and Clint opened his mouth to say something, clearly deciding it was best to remain silent once he saw the look on Steve's face. Bruce and Thor looked up at him from their spots in uncomfortable hospital waiting room chairs, all of them waiting silently for him to say something.

"It's… bad," he said slowly, his tongue thick in his mouth as he fought to form the words.

There was a long silence, in which Natasha stepped forward to rest a hand gently on his shoulder and squeeze. He avoided her eyes, but he knew that of all people, she could read every rigid line in his body and see just how absolutely terrified he was.

"My condolences, Steven," Thor said, a notch down from his normal booming voice, which Steve rather appreciated. "We must hope for the best."

"Thank you, Thor," he said tightly, and his friend nodded warmly at him.

"You are welcome," he said solemnly.

In that moment, Steve felt horrible that he needed to be alone so badly right now that even being around the people he loved most in the world was making his pulse race and his chest feel constricted. They were all looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to say more. They weren't pushing, but he felt their eyes tearing into him, searching for answers he didn't quite have the answer to. Well, more than not quite. He had no idea about anything at all at that moment.

"I'm sorry," he managed to choke out, "do you mind if I head off on my own for a bit?"

"Sure buddy," Clint said, standing up and coming beside him to clap him on the shoulder. "Want us to meet you at home?"

"Yes. Thanks," Steve said softly, and then he was pulling away, avoiding their eyes and wishing he could disappear. "I'll see you later, then."

He didn't stick around for their responses, he just tore away from Natasha's gaze that always made him feel like he was being pried open, gave them a small wave and a poor imitation of a smile, and then he was walking blindly. He wasn't paying attention to where he was going, just walking. He needed to keep moving. The only thing that mattered right then was that he got away from everything and everyone.

He felt like his insides were threatening to jump out of his skin. White walled hallway after white walled hallway passed by him in a blur as he walked. He was always better when he was in motion, he dealt with his thoughts best by working through it through physical activity. His mind worked better when he didn't have to stay in one place and think too much.

The thing about not paying attention as you wandered aimlessly through a hospital you didn't know your way around, was that it's pretty much inevitable that you'd get yourself lost. Which, of course, was what ended up happening to Steve, but he was so lost in the chaos of his mind that he hardly even noticed.

He thought about how he was as a child, scrawny and sickly and always going to the doctor who would look at him with tired eyes because it would've been faster to tell him what _wasn't _wrong with him, as opposed to what was wrong with him. A childhood of staying indoors, full of aches and lungs that didn't work properly, worried faces hovering over him always. Bucky had always been there to help sneak him out, so they could go to the movies together or an arcade, just so that Steve didn't go out of his mind. The only times he didn't aid Steve's sneaking out when he was definitely too sick to leave the house, laid up in bed coughing so hard his whole body quaked. Those were the times that Steve had wanted to leave, but Bucky had made him stay in bed, but he'd always stick around and keep him company, playing board games or flicking through the TV channels. Steve was certain that he was a large part of how he survived childhood.

Then he'd grown up, and things had gotten better health wise. He'd shot up to a lofty height which resulted him being a head taller than people he'd look up at before, and started working out like a madman. He ate healthy, built muscle in places he wasn't even completely aware existed and became the pinnacle of fitness. He grew out of most of his health problems. He felt better. He wasn't sickly anymore. He felt whole, he felt unbroken.

Until now, and he was broken in the worst way possible. It was funny how life worked that way.

Without even really realizing it, he found himself completely drained of energy, sitting in a hard chair in an empty waiting room, his head in his hands and short, labored breaths tearing from between his lips.

"Are you alright?"

Well, perhaps the room wasn't completely empty.

He looked up, to see a woman with strawberry blonde hair, faded lipstick and heavy dark circles under her eyes assessing him. Her long legs were tucked underneath her, her smart, business like heels tossed beside her in a heap. She was looking at him carefully out of tired blue eyes, faint interest and concern on her face.

When Steve didn't answer right away, she gave him a sort of wan smile and tilted her head to one side. "You're sitting in a hospital waiting room looking like the world is ending, that was a silly question."

He huffed out a breath and shrugged. He didn't necessarily wanting to talk to anyone right then, but he didn't want to be rude so he suppressed his desire to ignore her and just leave.

"Long day," he responded somewhat curtly, and he winced at the unintentional rudeness. Thankfully she didn't notice the abruptness of his tone, or she didn't care, and she simply nodded in agreement.

"Don't I know it."

There was a pause where the only thing that could be heard was Steve's breath, which sounded far too loud in his ears, and indistinct voices in the distance, until she spoke again.

"Obviously I don't know you, but you look like you could use someone to talk to."

Steve flinched involuntarily, and fought to keep his expression neutral. "I just left all of my friends behind in a waiting room because I didn't feel like talking."

She made a noise of understanding in the back of her throat, a low noise that might have been pleasant if he wasn't wound so tight. "Fair enough, but I'm a stranger you'll probably never see again, if that makes it easier. You could just vent. The offer is there if you need it. I'm all ears."

He was sure the skepticism was clear on his face. "I don't know."

"I've been told I'm a good listener," she encouraged.

He thought that she might have been right, but he really didn't feel like outwardly saying anything to her. Still, there was a sort of brusque, yet comforting presence about her, and he figured it wouldn't hurt.

Steve was shaking his head, his face twisted into a grimace. "I hate feeling powerless like this," he said, his voice rough. It was vague, yes, but it was how he was feeling then.

She shrugged, so small and insignificant that if he'd blinked he'd have missed it. "It takes too much energy to be in complete control all the time, I've found. Sometimes things just happen and you can't stop them. We're only human."

Steve huffed out a humorless laugh, and before he could stop himself, his mouth was moving again and he wasn't really in control of what words were coming from his throat.

"They just told me I'm fatally ill and they're not sure if they can cure me."

A long pause, heavy with the weight of his words followed.

"I'm sorry," she murmured finally, her voice soft. To his relief it wasn't placating, but instead laced with genuine empathy. He didn't think he could stand blatant pity right then.

He shrugged, and for some reason his mouth kept on going. "I was a really sickly child, always coming down with something. I've lost count of how many times a doctor has told me that I was probably going to die young. But… I thought I was out of the woods, that I wouldn't have to face this again."

He let out a soft, humorless laugh and shook his head. "Is that ironic? It feels ironic."

"It's funny how nothing ever ends up the way you were hoping it would, isn't it?" she said in a way that made it clear that it really wasn't funny at all, her head tilted to the side and her eyes knowing.

He nodded, out of words.

"I'm here because my boss is a reckless maniac, and ended up in an accident because of it," she sighed. Steve looked at her with a question on his lips, but before he could speak, she let out a short laugh and kept talking.

"Yes, I'm well aware of how strange that sentence sounds, but there's no other way to explain why I'm here. Thank god it wasn't too bad, but it feels like every day I'm waiting for the time when I can't say that anymore."

Steve took in this stranger's posture; her pursed lips and her tired eyes. Here was a woman who cared. Cared too much perhaps, which was probably why she was sitting in hospital waiting room on a night when she clearly hadn't been expecting to end up waiting for news about someone who was broken and battered probably didn't even know she was out there for them.

"He should appreciate what he has more," he said softly, without thinking, and wanted to snatch it back immediately. This was a stranger he was talking to, he didn't get to say things like that.

But she was shaking her head, her lips mouth curled down at the corners in a strange grimace.

"He doesn't realize that he should appreciate himself more," she said sadly.

Before Steve could respond, another person entered the room, a doctor in a clean white cloak who squinted at a clipboard in front of him. "Miss Potts?" he said, and the woman looked up, the exhaustion in her face clear as her eyes took longer than normal to focus on the speaker. "I need to speak with you in private, please."

"Oh. Yes, of course," she answered, and then she was gathering her bag into her arms and shoving her feet into her discarded shoes. She gave Steve a fleeting glance as she stood to leave the room, giving him a small smile that made him feel a lot better than he would've expected.

"Good luck," she told him, and Steve responded with the same fatigue tinged smile.

"You too. Thank you, Miss Potts," he said, and he meant it. Talking had helped, somehow. It still hurt, but at least the initial panic had faded somewhat into a dull throbbing in his chest.

"Well, I guess I'm not a completely anonymous stranger anymore," she chuckled quietly, "but I'm glad I could help."

"You did," he assured her.

She flashed him one last tired smile, waved and then she was gone. Once she disappeared around the corner, trailing behind the doctor, Steve couldn't help thinking that based on the few brief moments he'd spent talking to her, whoever she was there for was unbelievably lucky to have her.

* * *

When Tony woke up the first thing he noticed was the metallic taste of blood clinging to his tongue like an acrid film. In that moment there was nothing he hated more than that taste, and he wanted to gag, to douse his mouth with something stronger, something that would wash away the taste with a swishing sensation of burning fluid.

The rest came to him in fragmented, groggy pieces; the intense, fluorescent light that pierced at his eyes even though they were closed. Far too bright, too intrusive. There was the pulsing pain that resonated through him with every breath, centered in his side and spread outwards like an unwanted, burning head. A rustling coming from beside him, the sound of pages being turned and soft breathing. Slow, soft, unhindered breathing. Whoever it was, he envied the fact that they were breathing without the hitch of pain spreading through their torso with each act of inhaling, like he was.

Next came the foggy feeling in his head, a dizziness that spun through his brain even though he was laying flat on his back in a bed; a bed with the most uncomfortable, scratchy sheets he had ever had the divine privilege to lay on, but a bed nonetheless.

Really, he was starting to become aware of the fact that most of his body was actually in stiff to the point where it was painful to move, and the parts that weren't were smothered in a bruise-like ache. He was scared to move too much or too abruptly because it seemed like that would probably hurt like hell, but he was also quite concerned about why exactly he was in so much pain.

Well, he wasn't dead. So that was something.

After long, laborious deliberation, he decided that it was probably the best idea to brave the monstrosity that was the overhead lights, and open his eyes.

He cracked one lid open first, and when that only caused a dull throbbing in his brain, he creaked the other one open, slowly.

A standard hospital room greeted his weary eyes, so white and blank he couldn't stand it. White walls, a plain door and a small window were all that the room had to offer for the most part. Well, that and some rather unimpressive art of some pastel coloured flowers that hung on the wall opposite of him, and the plain, rather stiff looking chair next to his bed that featured a curled up Pepper Potts with her nose stuck in a book, the only spurt of colour in the room coming from the brightness of her hair and the red nail polish she wore.

He looked at her for a moment, saw the way her hair was slightly mussed but still sleek and put together the way she always seemed to manage. Her eyes were tired her plain clothes, a heavy sweater and a pair of jeans, were rumpled enough for Tony to think that she had been sitting there for a considerable amount of time. Even though she looked exhausted and weary, Tony noted how she still looked put together. She always looked like she knew what she was doing that she was, she had this air about her that just told everyone that she knew everything that was important, and if she didn't know, she was damn well going to find out and handle it in the most professional way possible.

It wasn't the first time that Tony wondered what he had done to deserve Pepper Potts, and it wouldn't be the last time the realization that he didn't followed that thought. He was utterly selfish for asking her to waste her slew of talents for him.

"Fancy meeting you here," were the first words out of his mouth, and her eyes snapped up from the page she was reading. In an instant that was purely Pepper, two expressions crossed her face; one was of immediate anger and disapproval that Tony was pretty sure he probably deserved, and the second was softer, fond and relieved.

She slid a bookmark into her book, closed it and set it aside. As she leaned forward, she narrowed her eyes and assessed him with that look hers that had convinced him to do many things that no one else could convince him to do.

"One of these days you're going to give me an honest to God heart attack," she griped. "I mean it. One of these days it's just going to be too much, and I'm just going to drop where I'm standing, and that's going to be on your conscience Tony, for the rest of your life…"

"Could we maybe," Tony coughed, grimaced as he shifted on the bed, which was definitely not a good idea, "save the lecture for when my body is not recovering from being tossed around like a ragdoll? I promise you can yell at me later."

She glared at him for another moment, then pursed her lips as she leaned forward to gently grasp his hand in both of hers, clearly being mindful of his injuries.

"You really scared me this time, Tony," she whispered, and he could see it there, the genuine concern in her eyes. She'd been worried. Great.

"Yeah, I can see why," he wheezed around another fit of pain, trying to casually play off the spurt of guilt he felt because of that look she was giving him. "How long was I out?"

She grimaced, and the expression highlighted the dark rings that were under her eyes. Tony felt himself wither a bit inside, a seed of shame wedged itself in his gut for putting that tired look on her face. Really, he had to stop making Pepper's life so difficult.

"A few days," she told him, "you've woken up a few times since you got here, but you were too out of it to say anything that actually made sense. When Thor came to check on you, you yelled at him about how you would be 'back with a vengeance to strike down your enemies.'"

Tony groaned loudly and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Uh, everything is a little fuzzy right now and I'm not completely sure what's what, they must have me on some pretty intense pain medication, but I seem to remember a certain dark haired idiot that goaded me into racing with him-"

"Do not put the blame on Loki right now, he didn't crash and give his friends the biggest scare of their lives."

He opened his eyes and gave her a sidelong look. He tilted his head to the side, his face twisted into an expression that said _really? _She stared right back, her expression determinedly set in a disapproving manner, and it wasn't long before he shrugged indifferently. There was no winning against Pepper; mostly because she was almost always right, even though it would take a whole lot more for Tony to actually admit that.

Then a memory from the night before jarred him into a half seated position, his lips parted in dismay, and he let out a long hiss of discomfort as pain resonated through his body. He ignored it as he stared at Pepper with wide eyes.

"Oh God. Pep. Pepper. Did I crash into a tree?"

She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, her voice flat as she answered.

"Yes."

He groaned outwardly at that, and squeezed his eyes shut, utterly dismayed. "Of all the conceivable injuries one can possibly get, I'm going to be walking around all cut up, and I can literally say that I got from _running into a tree."_

"Yeah, well. It's really your own fault."

"Is that your best attempt at sympathy? Call the nurse, I'm requesting a less criticizing bedside vigil."

"If that's what you want, perhaps you should refrain from running into trees with your car in the future, then you won't have to worry about who is sitting at your bedside giving you the third degree."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks Pep."

He sighed, suppressed a yawn, and settled back into the cushions, trying his hardest to ignore the throbbing pain that was singing through his body in rather unpleasant waves. "How long am I stuck in here for?"

"A few more days at least, they want to make sure you're alright. Fractured ribs, concussion, bruising… Really, you were lucky. You could've been a lot worse off."

"I think I'll feel better about it when I can go home and my whole body doesn't feel like I was just tossed out of a window," he pointed out mournfully, his words slurring together a little bit. He was feeling a bit drowsy all of a sudden, he realised, as he leaned back in the bed, closing his eyes again.

"Sure you will, Tony," she said, and he tried to respond, but fuzzy blackness was clouding his mind and sucking him downwards. Sleep was reclaiming him, and he was fading into darkness even before he could even begin to come up with anything to say.

* * *

Days later when Steve returned to the hospital, he was officially already sick of this.

The second round of tests had been just as frustrating and painstakingly long, and talking to the doctor afterwards was frustrating and Steve's head was killing him.

On his way out of the building however, his quest to get home and curl up on the couch in the comfort of his own home was interrupted by the feeling of a solid body slamming into him head first.

"Watch out!" a gruff voice hissed just a moment before impact and, with a flash of dark hair and sharp eyes, the person crashed into Steve's chest, more the surprise than the actual force of the collision knocking him back a few paces as he tried to steady himself. In the spur of the moment, one hand came up to cup around the man's elbow, in that reflexive movement humans do when they're falling and they instinctively reach out for something to hold on to.

The man had done the same thing, but instead curled his fingers over Steve's forearm, fingers clutching at him through his jacket as he stumbled forward. Probably the only thing that kept him from falling flat on his face was the fact that his forehead connected with Steve's broad chest.

After a few awkward, fumbling seconds, Steve managed to get himself steady on his feet, and the man stopped falling forward. For a long, silent moment, he imagined that they made a rather comical picture as they waited for their brains to catch up with the situation.

Then the man made a noise that was half a grunt of displeasure and half an unhappy groan, and he was backing away just enough to turn around frantically.

"Do you see anyone coming?" he blurted, craning his neck around the corner, back in the direction he'd come flying from.

Steve blinked, confused. "What?"

The man turned around then, flashed a brief glance at him, and through his confusion, Steve was surprised to see that he was incredibly handsome, despite his rumpled jeans and t shirt and his tousled dark hair. A shadow of a bruise, yellowed around the edges, hovered over one cheekbone and there was a cut that was clearly stitched up running across his forehead, but somehow that didn't seem to take away from his attractiveness at all. He was probably around Steve's age, perhaps a little younger, an adult but still carrying a youthful charm in the carefree nature in his face. His swift glance showed Steve vibrant, coffee brown eyes that were a bit unnerving, but not uncomfortably, and a mouth that was quirked up in grin that could only be described as mischievous.

Steve's already fragile heart may or may not have faltered a bit.

"Come on," the stranger commanded under his breath, and then they were moving, the man's hand coming down to firmly circle around his wrist. At the contact of their skin, Steve felt a strange jolt run through him and there was a strange kind of electricity to his touch that sparked against his skin, as he was pulled along further down the hallway.

What the _hell_ was going on?

As he was hurried along in the man's wake, for a moment he wondered why he was letting a complete stranger drag him around, but then the thought was forgotten as the man set a determined pace and started talking quickly and rather enthusiastically in a low voice.

"I have to get out of my room for a while, oh my god it is suffocating in there, have you ever had to spend days on end in a hospital room? It's brutal, I was just about to go insane in there, and I only have a limited amount of time before my assistant comes back and reams me out for sneaking out again so we have to be quick, she can't catch us. She'll kill me, and I can't face that when I'm actually going to get out of this place tomorrow morning."

He stopped suddenly, yanked his captive around another corner, pulling him into a second hallway. He pushed Steve behind him, who watched on with confused amusement as he listened to him yammer away, as he peeked around the corner. Really his hair was a mess, all ruffled like he'd just been laying in bed, but he found he didn't find that unattractive at all. Rather, paired with the mischievous fervour he was exuding, it was kind of cute.

Steve shook off the word _cute _as soon as it came into his mind. That really wasn't a word he ought to be applying to strange men he didn't even know.

After a few seconds of staring around the corner at the empty hallway Steve had just been ushered down, he let out a relieved sigh, and turned around, focusing those eyes directly on Steve.

For a split second, he just looked at him. He was a little breathless and still sparkling with adrenaline. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he seemed to really see Steve, actually see him, the man he had just grabbed and ran down a hallway with, confusing the heck out of him. A flicker of surprise crossed his face as he snapped his mouth shut and narrowed his eyes. He seemed to have no reservations about staring directly at him, looking almost like he was drinking in the sight of his face and committing every fine detail to memory. Steve felt himself squirm under his intense gaze.

Then, that handsome face broke out into a smile that could only be described as dazzling, so wide and pleased that the corners of his eyes crinkled.

Steve felt a little glowing warmth in his chest, starting in the broken tremble of his heartbeat and slowly spreading outwards, as he tentatively returned the smile.

"Well hello there, gorgeous," the man drawled, offering his hand to Steve. "I'm Tony."


End file.
